Bangabandhu: He was our man

It was the time to be alive. It was the time to die. It was the time when we learned who we were. It was when we knew how to win our independence and who our leader was.

The year was 1971, and the month was March.

It was a tumultuous time. Sheikh Mujibur Rahman had made it clear that we were on the path to independence in his 7 March speech at the Ramna Racecourse in front of lakhs of his people in no uncertain terms. And the country and the people were ready for it.

For me and my younger brother Mithu, the previous months had passed like a whirlwind. Before that March, we had been busy with our usual activities, school at 11am, home by 4:30pm. There was no TV time as we did not have that magic box. We went to our neighbours if we really wanted to watch The Man from UNCLE or The Third Man for thrillers, Bonanza for Western, or Popeye the Sailor for cartoons. All in magical black and white.

There was the election in December 1970. The people of East Pakistan had made their choice clear. They wanted a realisation of the dream that one man had sowed in their collective hearts, that of shaking off the years of deprivation by the West Pakistani rulers and to have the power to determine their own destiny.

Why is Golden Bengal barren?

On our way to school, I had seen posters affixed on the walls everywhere that had made the message of economic disparity clear even to my 12-year-old mind. It had a simple message: "Sonar Bangla Shashan keno?" Why is Golden Bengal barren? To this day, I believe the poster was a supreme piece of political propaganda with a simple question and bullet point answers the likes of which are non-existent in world history.

It said that East Pakistan's golden fibre, jute, earned the most foreign currency. The poster made it clear, concisely, how the major portion of the foreign currency was being spent in the western wing for development while our poor farmers toiled under the fierce tropical sun in the fields of Bangla.

The message was clear--we, the Bangalis, were being duped out of what should be our fair share. We understood the message even at that pre-teen age when we were more busy with homework, tennis-ball cricket, exploring the neighbourhood or just making our own toys to play with.

In some obscure corner of our minds we knew the country, ruled by a military dictator by the name of Field Marshal Mohammad Ayub Khan, was not our friend notwithstanding his fervent declaration to the contrary. We somehow knew, this man, Sheikh Mujibur Rahman, who had made the demands for autonomy and rights for his people, the Bangalis, was our man. His name was on everyone's lips, on the front page of newspapers every day.  His demeanour, his baritone voice, his ready smile, his kind face, his easy mingling with all strata of his people, his fearless face-off with the Pakistani military junta had made him the larger than life leader in our minds. We all knew him. We were enamoured with his charisma. His white punjabi-pyjamas, black rimmed glasses, thick back-brushed black hair, and the black prince coat made him an icon even in our immature minds.

His people had freed him from Ayub's jail in the 1969 mass uprising and he would be leading them to the rising sun.

My first vision of him in person was when he came to deliver an election campaign speech at the Farm Gate park, Ayub Park at the time. It was right before the Eid ul Fitr vacation in 1970. November 28 or 29. The election was to be held on 7 December.

So there we are, my friends from my neighbourhood, in the Ramadan of 1970 as we go out to play like we do every day in the Farm Gate park when we hear a blaring megaphone tied to the hood of a rickshaw slowly making its way along Indira Road. The message is thus: Bangabandhu Sheikh Mujibur Rahman is coming to our Indira Road area soon to address an election meeting arranged for the women of the neighbourhood. The meeting would be held in the park itself where we play every day.

We stop to listen to the message. A thrill runs through us. He is coming, the man himself! And we are going to see him with our own eyes, from a touching distance so to speak.

I can't remember the exact date of the meeting after all these years but it would be the last week of November. Eid that year was on 30 November. I remember the Eid vacation was on already and people had started to leave the city to celebrate Eid at their homes as they do even now.

We, the friends of Indira Road and Tejgaon Polytechnic High School are abuzz with where the meeting is going to be and how we must not miss it. I could hardly sleep the day before.

And all day, the next day, I cannot concentrate on anything else other than when I am going to see him, the leader for our freedom.

I see the great man in person for the first time

The meeting time is around 4pm. I do not exactly recall the time but it is immaterial now. I take my baby brother, Mithu, with me. We are inseparable. He is just six-years-old but my excitement is infectious and he is skipping all the way to the park holding on to my hand. There is already a small crowd there when we reach the spot. There is a small decorative earthen hill right in the middle of Farm Gate park. Large coloured boulders are placed on it and tall cactuses raise their heads at the peak. Many of our afternoons are spent playing around that small earthen hump we so sarcastically call a "hill".

Presently, a white Toyota Corona approaches from the west along what is now Manik Mia Avenue. It stops by the road near where we wait. The left rear door opens and he steps out dressed in his iconic clothes, pipe in hand. He doesn't need any protocol. He is the people's leader. The Leader. Such leaders do not need protocol.

He proceeds to the "hill" with his companions. Local youths trail him and we also follow Bangabandhu and his entourage.

Looking for an elevated vantage point, he climbs a little higher on the hill and turns to address the crowd. The setting sun illuminates his face and his glasses glint in the light. It is a small crowd. People had left the city for their village homes to celebrate the coming Eid. But it does not matter. Mithu and I are just a few feet away. A small megaphone is offered. He takes the mouthpiece in hand and starts to speak.

I still remember his words even after all these days. He looked over the crowd and said, "Actually I had wanted to speak to my mothers and sisters today. But since they are not here I shall talk with you anyway."

His message is direct and simple.

He said he knows most of the people will be leaving the city to celebrate Eid. But when they come back in December, they should vote for him.

"As you know, the election is on the 7th. It is an election for gaining our rights. So I need your vote. Please vote for me on that day."

Then he gets down from his high ground and walks to his car while talking with his companions. We did not know who the others were. At that age, we were not that savvy about the leadership of the party, but they must have been the heavyweights who kept him company in hard times and good times and the trying times of his struggle for freedom for his people, for his country. But we didn't know them at all.

And it does not matter to us. In the descending darkness, we stand in groups and continue to talk about him. We talk about what we heard while we also head for home.

My mother and younger sister were waiting eagerly to hear from us. My mother was preparing iftar while my sister helped her with it when Mithu and I burst into the kitchen to announce what we had seen. We didn't miss any detail and if one did, the other filled in.

Election December 1970

The next few days were like a whirlwind. We had the Eid and then came the general election. Dhaka Television was to broadcast the results round the clock for three days interspersed with movies, songs, drama, talk shows, results analysis and what not. My youngest aunt, chhoto khalamma, used to reside at 9 Green Road, just opposite the River Research Institute. She had a huge living room and a huge black and white Toshiba TV, in those day's standards. It stood on four slanted slender legs and was a mahogany burnished fixture of the room itself, covered with a white lace piece.

She drops in one afternoon bedecked in her expensive silk saree and bejewelled with gold and invites us to her home to witness the results. That we shall be continuously supplied with tea, polao, chicken rezala, and occasional snacks was also stressed.

What's not to like!

So on election day, Mithu, I, and my older brothers ride our bikes to her home. White sheets cover the living room carpet. There are plenty of pillows for us to laze on. Our youngest mama, our most friendly and jovial one, joins us with his good humour and bonhomie.

As far as I remember, Shafik Rehman was presenting the programme. The familiar face of Masuma Khatun, a long time presenter of Pakistan Television, Dhaka, was also with him.

At that age we are more interested in movies, songs and cartoons. But each time the results are declared on TV, we listen intently with trepidation.

The verdict was clear: The Awami League, that is Bangabandhu, was going for a decisive victory.

We feel elated. We feel relieved as if a heavyweight had been lifted off of our hearts. We know our time has come. We shall determine our own destiny instead of relying on a faraway place named Rawalpindi, Pindi for short.

The next few days are spent as usual. School, homework, playing in the neighbourhood. All tinged with an optimism of good things to come.

A betrayal most heinous

Pakistan's president Yahya Khan declares 3 March for the opening of the parliament session.

But something happened two days before that. We are in school as usual but at around 2 pm a group of agitated students enters the school campus, going from room to room and asking us to come out. It transpires that Yahya Khan has postponed the parliament session and everybody has come out on the streets in protest.

We spilled out of our classes, the whole school was out on the playground, on the streets. There were slogans in thousands of voices.  The teachers could not check our spontaneous anger.

This was not supposed to happen. It is a betrayal of the highest order. We, in our simple child's minds, understand it well. Tears of anger burn our eyes but our voices touch the sky and our hands are raised upwards. We want our rights.

The roads are full of people on foot as cars and buses go off the road immediately.

As I enter the house, my mother is surprised. And I tell her of Yahya Khan's betrayal. She comments in a sombre tone that there is going to be a great turmoil.

Historic 7 March speech

Announcements were made that Bangabandhu would be addressing a rally at the Race Course Maidan on March 7. The city was abuzz with speculations on what he was going to say on the day. Some said he would declare independence that day. Our hearts beat fast at the thought. But even then there was fear in the air. Rumours were rife that the Pakistani army would bomb the Race Course if anything in this line was uttered.

My oldest brother, Iftikhar Uddin Ahmed, was an apprentice engineer at the Palash Janata Jute Mills at Ghorashal. The day before March 7, he suddenly appeared in the evening at home. He had his familiar jungli print khaddar side bag on his shoulder and a six-feet bamboo stick in his hand. He was all dusty and sweaty, his curly hair dishevelled. But his large eyes were giving off an unearthly light from under his black-rimmed glasses.

He had walked all the 28 miles from Palash to Dhaka to attend the historic March 7 meeting of Bangabandhu. He had walked along the rail line to Dhaka alone with his stick and bag. He was tall and extremely handsome in a very manly way. His deep voice commanded confidence. His eyes twinkled with mischief when he talked with us and he was the best brother we had.

We decided to keep it a secret at home as we were forbidden to join the picketers at any time. But those times were different and nothing could keep us penned in. That was the unbounded spirit of liberation, freedom, rebellion, in our little hearts by none other than Bangabandhu and we were fully in it.

After dinner we sat around the dining table and he said that Bangabandhu was going to declare independence and he would go to war for freedom and nothing could stop him. He was to leave for Glasgow, England, just two weeks later to study engineering. His airline tickets had been bought. It was on BOAC. So what about that? Was he going to give up his dream of becoming a mechanical engineer? It turned out that Boro bhai would never have the chance to go for his engineering degree to England. He would not see an independent Bangladesh. He was killed in a raid on his camp on 1 December 1971 at Palash, Ghorashal.

On 7 March 1971, Boro bhai and his closest sibling Shahid bhai were ready by noon. They left for the Race Course by 2pm. All through the day, thousands of people were proceeding to the ground with thunderous slogans. They were people of Bangladesh. Wearing lungi, genji, and a gamchha tied around the head. And everyone carried a bamboo stick.

Bangabandhu was to address the people at 4pm. We heard his speech was to be broadcast on Radio Pakistan Dhaka. Abba sat on his old-fashioned high bed with his six-year-old sea green Philips radio, Amma and all the brothers and sisters were around him to listen to the most momentous speech they would hear, one that was to change all our lives forever. We hung around too, but our minds were in the streets. We yearned to walk with the thousands of feet, we wanted to throw our clenched fists skyward in our quest for power, the power for the Bangalis as the voices in the streets thundered, "Bir Bangali ostro dhoro, Bangladesh Swadhin koro!" Pick up your arms, brave Bangalis, and free Bangladesh. "Tomar amar thikana, Padma, Meghna Jamuna"--Your and our addresses are the rivers Padma, Meghna and Jamuna, connecting us to our riverine civilisation sprouting out of the verdant Gangetic plains.

But the speech was not to be broadcast. The Pakistani junta stopped the live broadcast and it never came on the radio.

We could not wait any more at home. Mithu and I slipped out and headed for Farm Gate, the limit of our known world at that time.

Throngs of people were mingling around. Some crowded the famous paan shop there with its gleaming brass utensils and green paan leaves sprinkled with rainbow hued spices. The radio was on in full volume. But they were dejected. Everybody had wanted to hear the thunderous voice for the final direction because everybody knew Bangabandhu was to declare independence that day.

Then something strange happened. As the blue-tinged evening covered the streets, two young men approached by the airport road on a motorbike from the south. They stopped right in front of us and the pillion rider told us in an urgent voice, "We are coming straight from the Race Course. Bangabandhu has declared Independence, Bangbandhu has declared Independence!"

And as suddenly as they had appeared, they vanished with their bike.

A stunning message

We were stunned! Independence! Bangabandhu had declared Independence!

Mithu and I started to run with screams of "Joy Bangla!" Mithu was smaller and weaker. He could not keep pace with my long-legged lope and I had to pause and hold his hand and run again. He was trying hard to keep pace. But I was in no condition to notice that. I had to get this message to those at home, to my parents and sisters.

As we breathlessly entered the room we were screaming out the news. Baba looked worried. He knew a military junta would not give us independence so easily.

Boro bhai and Shahid bhai returned in the evening. They had the same message. Boro bhai estimated there were more than a lakh people there at the Race Course.

He left the next morning. The same way he had come to Dhaka. On foot. All 28 miles of it in one day.

Bangabandhu's speech was printed in full the next day and we all surrounded the newspaper on the table as mother read it aloud for all to hear. We would later hear the recording but the written speech was no less electrifying. Bangabandhu had become the de facto prime minister of Bangladesh.

He had given orders to the civil administration, banks, police, and the common people. He had called all to be prepared to earn independence. He had declared independence for a nation that had woken up at that moment. He gave us identity. We were Bangalis, Bangladesh was our country. He was our epic hero creating history.